Liam Sharma : This one’s for all the lovers who walk home alone.

I don’t think I’ve ever really had like proper sex; I’ve never made love. I am not some pure, boy-wonder virgin by any means; unfortunately, it seems quite antithetical.

I’ve slept with men. Like, a lot of them. It’s all subjective, isn’t it? But I have slept with more men than I wish to count, unlike my girlfriends who obsessively keep a tally of their love bites in their iPhone notes like it’s a game of cat and mouse. Either by my own volition or intoxication, I can both mentally and physically block anyone who’s had the displeasure of luring me into intimacy. It’s my party trick! I started doing it in New York when I was like 21 or whatever, and since then, each new person who’s roped me around their tight fingers like a Fruit Roll-Up will start to dissolve like a Berroca in my brain.

People could honestly trick me into believing I’ve stayed the night with them; I’d fall for it all too easily. If anything, I sometimes like it when someone whispers that we’ve actually already done this before. I’m usually on top of them, and I’ll let out this faint giggle to shrug off any doubt in their mind that I actually don’t know who the fuck they are or what the hell we did. Of course, that’s why we’re doing it again, silly. I’ll hiss. Their anecdotal tale zings me with just enough self-confidence to keep me going, a much-needed subtle serotonin bump my mind craves as it strolls the lonely halls of my brain day and night. It’s always been the boys with hazelnut eyes, devils dancing in the back of them, dirty nails, and the vocabulary of a drop-out drum teacher that catches my gaze. Boys who, at face value, might not be your ideal candidate to bring home to split a roast over Christmas with your parents. But they’re the boys who will let you go without it being a thing. The men I’ve gravitated towards won’t stay with me until all the lights are out or offer to call me an Uber after they’ve done whatever the hell they thought would turn me on. They will let me go. They will roll me in their front door at midnight and watch me slip out their cat door at dawn. Licking my wounds. They’ll probably drop me some weak text within minutes of me leaving; it’ll be something generic along the lines of that was fun or are you on PREP? Ha! or text me if you want to come over again, please, Liam. 

I’ll never respond. 

Not because I am trying to be a dick or illusive, but because I don’t know how to tell them that the cognitive process has already begun in my body. They’re dissolving slowly into my bloodstream; soon, they will be nothing more than nine digits on my phone. 

My parents have been married for over 30 years; I grew up in a household that served me love with every meal. I know I was inserted on this Earth from a privileged disposition. The water always ran hot during my 5.45 PM bath; my parents would line up at night to tuck me into my plush single bed with dinosaur sheets and a night light that flickered pink and blue every five or so seconds to keep the monsters under the bed from floating into my head. They’d kiss my forehead and close my eyes; goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite lumpy my mother would murmur. My parents showed me what true love could be in all its nuance. 

They named stars at our beach home after us; they screamed at each other in front of us and taught us how to feel our emotions out completely, whether conventionally correct or not; they showed me what love could be like through their connection with each other. A gift I will never take for granted and one a lot of people in my life will never get to experience. These seemingly small daily rituals of my childhood amalgamated and imprinted my North Star, something I have only just started to see at night now these last few weeks of being away.

I am in Portugal right now, Lisbon, to be precise. I am lying on my busted bed in a shitty rental unit with sand in my pants, skin peeling off my shoulders, and the drunken (and very fucking kind!!) locals are sloshed on the streets howling the Pope’s casual appearance in town. You really can’t make this shit up. 

I do my best work alone, especially on my soul. It’s taken about three or so weeks of moving through Europe somewhat alone to sit down and speak to you. Or, maybe, you are just my excuse to talk to myself.

I was shuffling around Hackney (London girlies, hello!) a few weeks ago in the early hours of the morning, as I was truly fucking lost hunting this man’s duplex down. We’d matched on Grinder, an app often seen as somewhat icky in queer culture down under, but I gave zero fucks in the Big Smoke and downloaded it when I was still in the air. I finally found him; after twenty minutes of walking around like a deer in headlights, with a ripped-up bleached-white wife-beater and Paco Rabanne 1 Million Cologne seeping out of my pores, I was primed to pounce. Or so I thought.

He was British, buff and beautiful, an authentic royal delicacy. It all felt very skins, and, at the time, it all felt very fitting. He politely asked me to remove my shoes at the door, which startled me. But I did so.

So, here I was, with exactly who I’d gone late night crawling for, about to show off my party trick, when suddenly, I started to crack. Something was coming up, but I hadn’t drunk enough to be sick; oh god, no, this was different. It wasn’t coming from my belly; the devils in my eyes were watering. 

And it just happened. I started crying. Bawling. I was ruthlessly sobbing on this man’s fresh white sheets. He didn’t even know my name; my profile said William, so I heard him mutter that as he tried to pat my back in comfort. But I could barely finish my sentence correcting him with my actual name as I tried to balance my mental breakdown with my oxygen levels, which is an art in itself. At first, he was visibly shocked; he immediately assumed someone had hurt me while I was wondering to find him or during a previous Grinder hookup. But it wasn’t that, not even close. No one touched me. I had travelled thousands of miles away with no promises to do better or be someone else, just an intrinsic knowing that whatever I will find has to change me; I want these next few months to break me new. And, I guess, when he asked me to take off my shoes, it implied he wanted me to stay the night. Or so I thought and felt at the time by the tone in his voice. No one’s ever asked me to stay over, especially before we had even had sex, or not that I know of; I don’t really give them a chance; my sneakers are usually placed right on top of my jeans and boxers, like a promiscuous hospital bag!

The tone in which he asked me as he opened his home to me with care is what I can still feel so viscerally.

I’ve never felt that energy; it felt innocent without a subliminal fucked up twist. No strings were attached, but spiders were dancing in the corners of his room, spinning a web of realisation I couldn’t seem to deter. And at that moment, I realised that the kindness offered by this complete internet stranger gave me so much more than a quick fuck could ever. The patience he had for this spun-out twink completely melting in his room at 1 AM with a high-pitched Kiwi accent that will echo through his head forever (I am sure!) will never escape my mind, too. He stroked my neck until I could once again count the beats in my heart; he got me bottled water and an ice-cold mini Snickers. He waited until I could tell him exactly what I wanted to do, which, in true Liam fashion, was to leave. But, this time, it was different. I could not deliver my infamous party trick because, well, I still think about him to this very day, the way his hands moved back and forth across my back to bring me back down to Earth. I know what he feels like. I’ll never forget his face or how he cared for the person I know I can be.